The act of writing
has always calmed me:
I spit out poetry like wildfire
and sometimes
it’s all I need to douse the flames.
The art of curving letters,
manipulating the alphabet
to create new worlds
has always been
my favourite bandage.

So for me, being speechless
equates with numbness,
a reality where the words in my mind
and on my tongue
don’t reach my fingertips
and never grace pages;
it is my own personal ninth circle,
where the demons
are the dark, twisted stories
trying to snake their way
into poisoning my parchment.

I can’t breathe
without the right words
to describe how the sweet mountain air tastes
when paired with the bitterness of a fresh betrayal.
And I can’t speak
because for once
I have no words
to fix this.

I fall for lies
when they are fed to me
on silver spoons from silver tongues,
even when they leave a metallic taste in my throat
that reminds me of coming rain
and storm clouds.
I fall for people
when they convince me to,
landing often beside closed arms and harsh words
and waking in a graveyard
of friendships and promises;
it’s my own fault
for assuming someone would catch me.

“You will find someone one day
who makes you feel worthwhile –
who convinces you
that you can move mountains,
pull tides,
ebb and flow through life
easily, with a grace you never knew you had.

“You will find something one day
that will remind you that you are a warrior,
a goddess,
a fucking hurricane with a purpose
and that purpose is to exist,
to bless everyone with your incredible self
and to care for them with a fierce passion
they never knew you could conjure.

“You will find some time one day
to forgive yourself of past mistakes and bad intentions
and to remind yourself
that you were never the problem
but rather, often self-love
was the solution
you never knew you were capable of.”